All in on You

Chapter Thirteen

This feels odd. Cool as hell, but also odd.

It's almost 10 p.m. and I'm sitting on a white leather couch in a Maille Arena suite. This place is spacious and swanky, and I'm sure business executives pay a pretty penny to watch the games from here. The suite opens to a 200-level view of the rink. What was short bright and boisterous a short time ago is now dim and eerily calm.

When Faulkner and Callahan led me to the suite, I thought they were joking—surely there had to be a more formal place for me to meet Angelo and Keith? Turns out they wanted a casual atmosphere and thought that having the guys being so close to their playing surface would foster authenticity. Fine by me. No worries that it feels a bit surreal sitting here this late alone. Faulkner told me that Angelo and Keith would be up as soon as they were finished with the media. Given that Keith assisted on Angelo's game winning goal, reporters were keen to talk to both players post-game.

It took me all of two minutes to spread my notes around the soft leather beside me. Although I had spent the afternoon writing out some questions and exercises, I still feel ill-prepared. I'm about to work with one of the best players in the NHL who is arguably the best goal scorer. What if my questions are cheesy or basic? What if I've already asked him all my good questions in our previous sessions? This city literally screams his name, and I can only whisper it before my heart betrays me.

I'm twiddling my pencil in my fingers when I hear Keith's lively voice, coupled with Angelo's husky laugh, travel closer to the suite.

"You better put some respect on my boy's name, Harlow, because he's the damn MVP!"

Well, what a greeting from Keith. Everything about him—from his voice to his steps—is loud. He brings the party with him.

"Hello to you too, Keith."

"Sup, Low?"

He grabs a water bottle from the island, tosses one to Angelo, and then to me. I almost drop it.

I have no clue where Low came from, but if I'm being truthful, I'm indifferent to any nicknames so long as he doesn't call me Har.

And speaking of Angelo, he's been pretty quiet. Actually, it's more accurate to say that he hasn't been speaking, because he has a confidence that fills the room. He's impossible to ignore.

"Harlow," he says, just as he brings the water to his lips.

"Hi. Congratulations, it was a good game. For both of you."

Keith has already sprawled himself on one of the couches next to me, but Angelo hovers by the island. They're both wearing Toronto Saints shorts and hoodies with their numbers on the sleeves. Both have wet hair, likely from their post-game shower.

"Keith, you're taking up the entire couch," Angelo says.

"Do you really have to sit next to me? I want to stretch out, and you're the size of an ox."

Keith is generally dramatic, but I'll give him credit for that solid metaphor.

"So much for the respect, eh Keith?" I tease.

His eyes widen in amusement. "I don't think the team pays you to be lippy, Low!"

"God, the team doesn't pay me at all!"

At least not yet. But not that I'm complaining now, because this is the sweetest gig ever.

"No amount of money would be enough compensation for Harlow to deal with idiots like you," Angelo says.

He's now sitting in the lone, matching armchair. I don't think it was designed with a guy his size in mind; he looks huge. I try not to ogle how thick and muscular his thighs look, but I'm only human.